


forgotten things

by AwayLaughing



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Character Study, Flash Fic, Gen, Introspection, POV First Person, Tumblr: legendariumladiesapril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: Berúthiel, on the name, and becoming.





	forgotten things

As a child, I lived not in the Umbar I read of in poems now. I lived in a small house, on a street forever in the shadows of the walls of the Haven, and our larger, more important neighbours. We owned no part of it, instead paying for the honour to live in the hot upper rooms. My mother spent most of her days there, weaving cloth we sold on the High Day for a pittance. I knew nothing of parties or saffron from the far east, of silks and linen so fine you could see through it. I knew my mothers patterned challis and comforting homespun, and naps when the rooms were hottest, and playing with others in the fountain.

 

I remember the name that passed through my mother’s lips, and will never be spoken again.

 

Clearest though, like it a glass etching in my mind, is the day my father came.

 

Men, dressed in the deep red of the Highest House, sat upon white horses lined the streets as she returned from the market. They lined the streets – and at the end of the way, where out house was situated. I remember the cries that echoed down dirt roads. They were my mother’s, pleading as a man walked away from her, metal gleaming on his brow. I remember the bright red blood, smeared on my mothers golden skin. Brighter than the red my father wore, but so close.

 

“ _Please, I spoke nothing of this, please do not take her.”_

 

But I was taken. A gift, to appease conquerers who wore the same face as those of the Highest House. The same face as my father, tall with eyes like a storm. Cold where mother was warm. So clear now, so many years later, where my mother has faded, soft around the edges like ancient stones, worn away by the weather or poor memory.

 

Osgiliath is not a home. It is a cage, but at least it smells less of brine and fish guts and sewage than my husband’s vaunted palace. It is full of shadows, though. Servants who stare out at me, watching, courtiers who whisper from behind corners. Why they bother, I do not know. They do not want me as a queen, and I do not want to be their queen. If we leave one another alone, I’m sure we will be quite a bit happier.

 

A mouser darts past me, chasing a mote of dust before flopping into the sun beam. It turns one amber eye to me. I ignore it, eyes fixed on my embroidery.

 

They say I have beguiled the cats, turned them into spies for my own purpose. I let them think it, because it is amusing. The mouser starts to purr, pleased with my inattention, or maybe with the sun.

 

“Enjoy it,” I tell it, “winter is coming and with it clouds.”

 

A servant passing by gives me a wide eyed look, skittering past like she too is a preoccupied cat. A laugh lingers somewhere in my chest at the thought.

 

Yes, let them fear me, the nameless queen of cats. I suspect is the only gift my father’s people will ever give me.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very quick fic in response to the general prompt for April 14th. I was going for a take on Beruthiel which deifies the usual proud Black Numenorean, and the villainy.


End file.
